


the light behind your eyes

by kamisado



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Christmas, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:34:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5540147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamisado/pseuds/kamisado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘I’m fine,’ he says, emphatically, and it’s only then that Laurens realizes that Alex’s voice is thick with cold, and he’s sweating profusely. The heady haze of drunkenness which had been keeping Laurens jolly suddenly dissipates and is replaced by an icy shiver down his spine. ‘What time is it?’ Alex asks, visibly disorientated. Laurens isn’t sure, but he can tell Alex is feverish, and fever’s dangerous, especially in winter. </p><p>[a festive lams sickfic]</p>
            </blockquote>





	the light behind your eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [euphrasiefauchelevent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphrasiefauchelevent/gifts).



_General Lee attended by Lt. Col Burr and Col Laurens atttended by Col Hamilton met agreeable to appointment on ~~Tuesday~~ Wednesday afternoon…_

‘Alexander?’

The voice wakes him out of his stupor. How had it gotten so dark, so quickly? He could have _sworn_ it was only three in the afternoon, Eliza hanging the plants she’d gathered around the house. Holly swings in bunches in the windows, sprigs of lavender sit neatly tied in pots, ivy twisting up the legs of the furniture. Now they lay in silhouette, the only light in the room the tiny nub of a candle he’d been using to write his letter.

Because of this, he doesn’t notice right away who had spoken. A freckled face leans into view, smiling wide, poring over the letter as he crouches down next to Alexander. At first Alex starts, but relaxes when he sees it’s only Laurens. His gait’s unsteady, hair fallen loose around his shoulders and he’s close enough that Alex can smell the alcohol thick on his breath.

‘I admire your tenacity, writing such a wonderful account of my heroics on Christmas Eve…’ His voice is remarkably even given the amount of liquor Alex presumes had been drunk. Alex looks up blearily, raising an eyebrow, but Laurens just grins. ‘But you really must know, ‘attended’ only has two t’s’. Alex was primed and ready with a witty rejoinder, but instead cusses under his breath as he realizes that Laurens had been completely right. He leans over the page, crossing out the offending letter with a little more vigor than necessary, but suddenly lets out an almighty sneeze, accidentally striking through a word in the line above.

‘What are you still doing here, John?’ Alex asks quietly, but not unkindly. He looks up briefly, trying to make his handwriting legible and ignoring Laurens’ barely suppressed mirth. The whole lot of them had been over earlier to wish him and Eliza a Merry Christmas: Laurens and Mulligan and Lafayette and Angelica, even Burr had come for a drink before sneaking home quietly. But Alex had opted for letter-writing in a corner, only speaking when spoken to, and hadn’t even noticed Eliza going to bed, never mind the drunken revelers spilling onto the streets.

‘You’ve been awfully quiet tonight, Alexander,’ says Laurens, gently moving Alex’s inkwell out of the way as his quill brushes dangerously near for a second time. As if to prove him wrong, Alex lets out another sneeze, taking with it this time almost a whole sentence, and finally decides to put the quill down.

‘I’m fine,’ he says, emphatically, and it’s only then that Laurens realizes that Alex’s voice is thick with cold, and he’s sweating profusely. The heady haze of drunkenness which had been keeping Laurens jolly suddenly dissipates and is replaced by an icy shiver down his spine. ‘What time is it?’ Alex asks, visibly disorientated. Laurens isn’t sure, but he can tell Alex is feverish, and fever’s dangerous, especially in winter.

‘I think it’s time to take a break, Alex,’ Laurens says softly, pulling himself to his feet ungracefully. Alex takes a despairing look at his letter, resplendent with splotches and scribbles, and forces himself to concede defeat. However, upon trying to stand, his legs collapse under him, as if he were a small farm animal that hadn’t yet learned to stand. Laurens didn’t quite expect this, reflexes slowed by the alcohol, but manages to grab Alex before he crumples to the floor entirely.

‘Let’s get you over here,’ says Laurens softly, as if he were talking to a small child. Alex frowns, muttering sullenly under his breath, but still slings his arm over Laurens’ broad shoulders and allows himself to be led to the dark-colored sofa under the window. Laurens pulls the curtain back a fraction, allowing the moonlight to spill in through the gap and illuminate their faces. Alex slumps back on the arm of the sofa, feet just hanging over the other end. His face glows eerie and hollow in the moonlight, and it makes Laurens shudder at just how skull-like it seems. He gently places a hand to Alex’s forehead. It’s dripping with sweat and burning hot, but Alex lets out a shiver at the contact.

‘Cold…’ he mumbles, consciousness slipping away. ‘So cold.’ Laurens snatches his hand away, and leaps to his feet to get the candle from the other side of the room, trying to hide just how much his hands tremble from the rising panic in his chest. He’d seen fever before, everyone had. Everyone knew someone who’d died from some nasty disease or another but Laurens hated how much it _changed_ people most of all. Here was Alex, quiet and despondent, making silly mistakes in the letters he took so much pride in. That’s not the Alexander that he knew and…

There’s only one thing for it.

Eliza rushes down the stairs immediately after being called. She doesn’t even seem to mind that Laurens hadn’t left, and still probably stinks of alcohol to boot, but instead she just seems immensely grateful for it. Alex begins to toss and turn on the sofa, as if he were caught in the throes of a nightmare, but Eliza just nods sagely, as if she had seen such things before. Laurens half-wondered if she had.

‘I’ll fetch cold towels,’ she says briskly, leaving Laurens to crouch at Alex’s side. He wishes Alex would stop writhing; his face is contorted in fear and agony, and he keeps mumbling one word to himself over and over. _Mother_.

On an impulse, Laurens takes Alex’s hand and squeezes. He’d heard the story from Alex one late night, as they sat on the eve of war. Alex rarely spoke about his family, and Laurens knew that this was one he’d probably never hear again. How Alex’s mother had become horribly unwell, closely followed by Alex. How his mother had died, but how Alex had survived. He wouldn’t look in Laurens’ eyes as he told the story, tossing back his liquor with a shudder, but Laurens could see the fear.

Eliza strides back into the room, clutching a bowl of ice water and rags and not taking her eyes off her husband. Laurens drops Alex’s hand immediately and springs to his feet, ready to help. ‘I need you to press these to his forehead, Mr. Laurens.’ He accepts the bowl gratefully and sets it on the floor next to Alex’s head. ‘Keep him cool until the fever breaks. I’m going to the kitchen to put some herbs together for him. Please let me know if anything changes.’ She smiles tightly, turning to look politely at Laurens, and he pretends not to notice the stiff and anxious way she turns on her heel and leaves again.

Laurens wrings out a cloth and presses it to Alex’s head. Alex stills almost immediately, letting out a long breath, as if the coolness of the cloth finally brought relief to his pain. Laurens is immensely grateful for it, listening as Alex murmurs softly, half-formed thoughts. The cool floorboards bite into his knees, and the room is chilly in the darkness, but Laurens knows that there’s nowhere else he would rather be.

‘Do you want to know why I didn’t go home earlier?’ Laurens whispers, his voice barely audible in the silence of the room. He knows that Alex is so far out of it he’d never remember a thing, and maybe that’s what gives him the impetus to speak. He could never have admitted it any other way. ‘It’s because…’ He fumbles for the words, brow furrowed, dunking his rag into the bowl and wringing it out again. ‘It’s because I didn’t want to be alone on Christmas Eve.’ He couldn’t even look at Alex to admit this; he focuses firmly on the rags and the motion of dabbing Alex’s forehead.

The night passes slowly, Laurens wringing the rags until his fingers are numb with cold, Eliza in a flurry of action, with poultices and bottles of herbal remedies.

Eventually, even Alex’s murmuring falls silent. Laurens silently prays that is a good sign; he doesn’t want to lose his best friend on Christmas Eve of all days. Tears prick behind his eyes as he listens carefully for the next rasping breath. He’s all primed and ready to call for Eliza, when Alex’s eyes flutter open.

‘John?’ he croaks, weakly lifting a hand. Laurens drops the rag back into the bowl and smiles, blinking back the tears that he didn’t even notice had begun to fall. He gently presses a hand to Alex’s forehead. He’s cooler, less flushed. Laurens is no doctor, but he reckons that means the fever has broken.

Rays of the morning sun spill through the gap in the curtains, lighting up the room in an amber glow and illuminating Laurens’ face like an angel’s. ‘Thank you,’ Alex rasps, and Laurens takes his hand gently, one eye fixed on the door, wondering if he should call Eliza in. He’s about to when Alex lifts his hand from Laurens’ grip and weakly points to the ceiling above the sofa. Laurens quirks an eyebrow in confusion before focusing his eyes on the sprig of mistletoe hanging over the middle of the window. He smirks but his heart thunders in his chest. _Don’t be ridiculous, Alex is delirious, he’s clearly still out of his mind with the fever-_

But he swears he’s never seen his best friend’s eyes so lucid, so full of determination. It’s the look he has in battle, steadfast, mercenary. With one last fearful look towards the kitchen, Laurens leans down and presses his lips gently to Alex’s. Alex is warm, gentle, everything that Laurens had grown to expect from the man who’d introduced himself with an interrogation but wrote letters overflowing with sentiment. After what feels like an age, Laurens pulls away and smiles. Alex looks surprised, as if he’d never expected Laurens to go through with it, but musters the strength to lean in for another.

Footsteps leading to the living room make Laurens jump back onto his knees sharply, and he prays his face doesn’t betray what he’s just done. ‘Fever’s broken, Mrs Hamilton,’ he says in a strangled voice, and Eliza’s whole body seems to relax. She puts the bottle she’s holding down onto the floor next to Laurens and leans over to stroke Alex’s hair.

‘Thank you for everything,’ Eliza says, ignoring how Lauren’s face is lit up brighter than the Star of Bethlehem with embarrassment. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting home to your family for Christmas?’ Laurens recognizes the polite cue to leave and he springs to his feet, ignoring the ache in his knees. ‘I- Yes, I really should,” he says gently, clasping his hands in front of him.

‘Let him stay, Eliza,’ Alex rasps quietly from the sofa. ‘He has nowhere else. Please.’ Eliza looks at Laurens gently, as if he were a kicked puppy, rather than a fully grown man. Laurens can’t believe Alex has just blurted this out, and resolves never to tell him anything ever again.

‘Is this true?’ Eliza asks, and all Laurens can do is look at his scuffed boots, too ashamed to open his mouth for fear of what come tumbling out. ‘Then please join us.’ She smiles brightly, the happiest he’s seen her all evening. Alex even pulls himself into a sitting position for good measure.

In one swift movement, Eliza leaps to her feet like a child and throws open the curtains on a new Christmas Day. Laurens reckons that he’s never been so happy to see the light.

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from 'the light behind your eyes' by mcr.
> 
> fun fact: hamilton's account of the lee-laurens duel was actually written on christmas eve 1778 so make of that what you will!


End file.
